Dementor Memories
by Michelle Lancaster
Summary: In the summer after Harry's fifth year at Hogwarts, Dudley learns a few things about the real world, and what the worst things in it are. (Complete)


Disclaimer: Not only do I not own Harry Potter and related characters, but I also don't own the events of one of the scenes here, because I kinda borrowed it from the end of OP and rephrased the action. You'll recognize it.

**Dementor Memories**

Dudley braced himself. He fixed onto his face an expression of sneering confidence, in anticipation of meeting his cousin at King's Cross Station after the year spent away at his freak school. Harry learned all sorts of mad things there, which put a strange gleam in his eyes and rendered him completely unafraid of anything Dudley could deal out to him. Weak little Harry now gave a defiant laugh at the prospect of a beating from his larger cousin; in fact, Dudley wasn't even that much larger than Harry anymore, since the little freak had been growing taller, eating well, and getting exercise. But far worse was the fact that, though he wasn't allowed to perform any spells during the summer, Harry still carried his wand with him at all times, and had even been known to draw it on more than one occasion. He could be downright reckless about magic.

Magic… It was another world to Dudley. He'd had only a few experiences with wizards, but they were enough to convince him that he didn't want any more. Especially after his traumatic encounter last summer with those invisible creatures of darkness and suffering that Harry called Dementors.

They had shown him horrifically disturbing things. And the idea that he could find such memories disturbing was indeed just as disturbing as the memories themselves…

The short flashes he had seen in his mind had been clear and significant enough to trigger floods of emotions.

He remembered watching a young Harry cry as he lay on the sidewalk after Dudley had knocked him flat with his tricycle; then, inexplicably, Dudley's trike had zipped away from him as if it had spontaneously developed a motor, and shot itself directly under an oncoming car. Harry had laughed as Dudley had gaped in horror.

He remembered chasing Harry once, back when they had gone to the same school. Harry had made to jump over a trash can, only to be suddenly airborne, and then land atop the school building. That time, they had both been stunned and horrified.

Then he remembered Harry's eleventh birthday. That huge man had appeared at the hut on the rock, and had given Harry a cake and a letter, and told him he was a wizard, his parents were a witch and wizard, and he was going away to school to learn magic.

And Dudley had been consumed with unbearable envy.

In that moment, standing in the freezing cold in that god-forsaken hut five years ago, he had remembered things as vividly as if a Dementor had swooped down over him. He had remembered all those times when Harry had done strange things as if by magic; he had remembered wishing he could do that, too; he had remembered playing as a very young boy at games of fantasy in which he could cast enchantments; he had remembered how harshly his parents had punished him for playing those games. Magic was evil, it was wrong, only freaks wanted to use magic; it didn't exist, Dudley wasn't a wizard, games which used imagination were unhealthy and unsafe, and he was never, ever to play them again. The look on his mother's face as she had screamed these things at him…it was a terrifying memory, one that was inextricable in his mind with the look on Harry's face when he had received that present on his eleventh birthday from that strange man. _Harry— yer a wizard_.

So much had made sense in that moment, and even more when Dudley's mother had started on a rant about his aunt. He remembered wondering, as he had looked into the cold eyes set in the face that had always lovingly coddled him, if Petunia Evans had ever been jealous of Lily Evans. That very question had set a colder flame in his soul than any rage the woman herself could have dealt out.

And then, the summer when he and Harry were fifteen, the Dementors came…

At first, Dudley had thought that Harry had cast the horrific spell that filled his mind and body with icy terror, but when he had recovered slightly from the incident, his mother had told him shortly that there had been two demons in that alleyway. Magical demons, she had said, with a spite in her voice that made Dudley's temper surge in fierce agreement with her principles. Anything magical was a demon. That was where Harry's new confidence came from, after all; he was possessed by the satanic forces of witchcraft, sorcery, and all those things which could only lead to evil.

But—doubt quavered within him, even now, ten months later, as he stood at the train station…it would be so much fun…to fly on a broomstick…to send letters by owl…

Dudley shook himself mentally. No. Harry found such things fun because he was a freak, a monster, no better than an animal—in fact, _less_ than an animal, because he had the option to lead a life of rationality and goodness, but instead chose to be an abomination. Animals, at least, did what they were supposed to. Harry, on the other hand… Well, any suffering he endured, he had brought onto himself by burying himself in the world of magic.

There he was; Harry came into sight as suddenly as if he'd materialized out of nowhere. Before Dudley had time to notice anything other than the fact that his cousin wore a strange look on his face, Harry was lost in a crowd of people, some of whom looked like they had sunk so far into the world of wizardry that they could hardly be called humans anymore. A man in a large travelling cloak and bowler hat tilted lower over one eye, who leaned on a gnarled walking staff with an equally gnarled hand, pointed a finger over his shoulder in the direction of Dudley and his parents; Harry peered around the man, caught Dudley's eye, and nodded.

Another man, who looked almost ordinary, detached himself from a conversation with a man and woman who looked completely ordinary. Dudley caught a glimpse of the man's face, and with a thrill of fear, recognized him as the father of some of Harry's friends. The summer before the Dementors—he remembered them yet again with a sinking feeling of dread—that man and three of his freak children, who were with him in the crowd now, had visited the Dursleys. They had gotten stuck in the fireplace, destroyed the living room, and worst of all, had fed Dudley a candy that made his tongue take on a life of its own, swelling until it nearly strangled him. Magic had done that to him, and that was why his parents hated magic.

But magic had also saved him. The man who was now approaching, along with many others, including the bowler hat man and Harry himself, had cast a spell which returned Dudley's tongue to normal. He still remembered how grateful he had been just to breathe again. He had been grateful to magic. Sometimes magic was good…but also bad… So what was it?

"Good afternoon," said that man now, standing before Mr Dursley. "You might remember me, my name's Arthur Weasley."

Arthur Weasley. It was an ordinary name. And the man himself appeared perfectly ordinary, and the woman at his side who must have been his wife looked the same. Perfectly sane. Not at all evil. They were smiling.

Yet some of those others—they looked threatening. Dudley tried to shrink.

"We thought we'd have a few words with you about Harry," Arthur Weasley was saying now. He was still smiling.

The bowler hat man, however, was not. "Yeah," he said in a dangerous voice. "About how he's treated when he's at your place."

Mr Dursley stood up straighter. "I am not aware that it is any of your business what goes on in my house—"

"I expect what you're not aware of would fill several books, Dursley," the bowler hat man replied shortly.

Dudley tried even harder to shrink. Arthur Weasley was still smiling, but it was a woman with alarmingly, unnaturally pink hair who spoke next; Mrs Dursley closed her eyes, not wanting to face her.

"Anyway, that's not the point. The point is, if we find out you've been horrible to Harry—"

"—And make no mistake," spoke up a kind-looking man in shabby clothes, who wore a perfectly friendly smile across his weary and lined face, "we'll hear about it."

"Yes," spoke up Arthur Weasley, "even if you won't let Harry use the fellytone—"

"_Telephone_," whispered a girl in the background, a girl about Harry's age, a girl Dudley was sure he had seen before, a girl who didn't look at all like a witch, though Dudley thought his mother would not have allowed any daughter of hers to walk around without so much as brushing her hair.

"—Yeah," the bowler hat man agreed, "if we get any hint that Potter's been mistreated in any way, you'll have us to answer to."

Mr Dursley swelled, and Dudley knew that a confrontation was building. Of course he wanted his father to win…but he couldn't help thinking such a thing was surely impossible.

"Are you threatening me, sir?" Mr Dursley asked loudly. Dudley felt slightly proud at the volume of his father's voice, though he knew the wizards had better weapons.

"Yes, I am," the bowler hat man confirmed amiably.

"And do I look like the kind of man who can be intimidated?" Mr Dursley demanded.

"Well…"

In answer, the bowler hat man lifted his hat off of the eye it covered. Dudley felt his heart jump to his throat in terror it the sight, and actually swallowed sharply to push it down to his chest, as his father jumped backwards and collided with a luggage trolley in shock—That was _not_ a normal eye! It was a large, round, bright blue orb that moved independent of its natural counterpart as it stared at Dudley and his parents.

"Yes," the man concluded, "I'd have to say you do, Dursley." To Harry, he went on, "So, Potter…give us a shout if you need us. If we don't hear from you for three days in a row, we'll send someone along… Bye, then, Potter."

Mrs Dursley made a small noise of painful displeasure; Dudley agreed with her.

The bowler hat man gripped Harry's shoulder affectionately, before the shabbily dressed man said gently, "Take care, Harry. Keep in touch."

Arthur Weasley's wife gave Harry a tight embrace and whispered something to him. Her son, the tall redhead who was the brother of the ones who had given Dudley that poisoned candy, shook Harry's hand and told him, "We'll see you soon, mate."

The girl with the bushy hair agreed, "Really soon, Harry. We promise."

Harry nodded, but did not speak. He had not spoken yet. But it seemed he didn't need to speak; his allies and friends didn't require it of him. All he did was smile and wave goodbye before heading out of the station. Dudley and his parents followed quickly, and though Dudley didn't like turning his back on those frightening people, he liked less the idea of staying anywhere near them.

Harry remained silent and calm until he had loaded all of his belongings, including his owl, and himself into the car. He stared out the window, ignoring Dudley, who was trying to find the courage to speak to him. It was essential to Dudley that he establish who was in charge here; he had to prove that he had some power, even if Harry had the magic. He didn't dare speak, though, in front of his parents; he wanted to wait until he and Harry were free from parental supervision, so they could face off in a fair, rules-free fight. So it would not be until that evening, he supposed, after dinner, when Harry went out for a walk around the neighbourhood, that they could confront each other.

It was the usual routine for Harry to disappear as soon as he washed the dishes. Sometimes Dudley went prowling the streets as well, perhaps with his friends, but more often he settled in to watch primetime television. Tonight, however, he decided he wanted to go out.

He caught up with Harry less than a block from their house, simply by walking quickly. The lethargic pace at which his freak of a cousin was moving struck Dudley as odd, but he didn't particularly care to wonder about it.

"I'm not scared of your freak friends," he said in a low voice to greet Harry as he approached from behind. He had hoped that speaking it would make it true, but immediately found this wasn't the case.

"Then you're an idiot, Duddykins," Harry answered easily, still facing away, walking very slowly. "But I already knew that, so I'm not surprised."

Dudley didn't know how to answer this. He fell silent a moment longer, thinking.

"Why are you in such a bad mood?" he finally asked. "Don't like leaving the other freaks? The only people who like you?"

Harry's body tensed as he stopped walking altogether, and Dudley was pleased with himself for apparently striking on something.

"It's none of your business why I'm in a bad mood," Harry said jerkily. "You wouldn't understand."

"Why wouldn't I understand? I understood fine last year," Dudley reminded him. "It was pretty obvious Or have you forgotten Cedric?"

Harry turned sharply to Dudley, and a flame sparked in his eyes. His voice trembled as he ordered, "I told you, don't you _ever_ speak to me about that."

But Dudley was latching onto his attack. He would drive Harry past the breaking point; Harry had brought those horrible monsters last year, forced all of Dudley's pain into the open… Now it was time for revenge.

"Still mad about that?" Dudley asked in a sneer. "Or did something else happen? C'mon, I wanna hear all about it."

Harry's face was twisted in a snarl of rage that Dudley would have found comic if not for the fact that he knew from experience how far Harry was willing to go when he was angry.

"You couldn't handle it," he spat ferociously. "You'd be crying for your mummy if you knew half the things I know, if you'd seen _any_ of the things I've seen…"

"Aw… What's the matter?" Dudley asked tauntingly. Putting on a baby voice, he mocked, "Poor ickle baby Potter—"

"_SHUT UP_!"

The next second, he was forced to duck as Harry's fist came swinging at his face without warning.

"_Shut up_, Dudley, you stupid—pathetic—Don't _ever_ talk to me, all right?!" he bellowed, shaking with rage as he stood there, fists balled.

"I can talk to you whenever I want," Dudley retorted; he was still the boxing champion of his weight class, after all, and Harry was smaller than any opponent he'd knocked out to earn that title. "You think you're so tough just because you have that—that—" He jerked his head towards where he knew Harry's deadliest weapon was concealed. "But I'm not scared of you. You or your stupid…your _Dementor_ things."

Harry held very still. "My Dementors?" he repeated quietly. Shaking his head very slightly, he corrected, "I didn't call those, Dudders. They came on their own. So you never know when they'll come again…and make you think you're dying…or that your mum and dad don't love you…or that there's nothing left in the world to be happy about… What did they make you hear?" he asked in a venomous whisper. "What horrible things have ever happened to dear Dudley?"

Dudley knew some of his fear must have been betrayed in his face by the way Harry's own expression lit.

"Come on, Dudley," he whispered. "Tell me what you heard, and I'll tell you what I heard. I know you want to know."

"N-no, I don't," Dudley told him.

It was a lie, and they both knew it. Dudley was burning to know anything about Harry's life that he could possibly find out. He wanted to know what was so forbidden about it, what made it so bad and wrong.

"Scared?" Harry asked sharply. "Worried you can't take it?"

"No," Dudley said again, with more confidence. "I'm not a little wimp who gets nightmares."

He almost took a step backwards, but to his surprise, Harry didn't swing a punch this time. The little freak had gone so white that Dudley could tell even in the twilight.

"You want nightmares?" he snarled. "Live my life for _one day_! There aren't many things worse than Dementors, Dudley, but I've seen some of them! You can't even imagine what it's like to be me, you could never even begin to understand—"

He cut himself off, eyes widening, and Dudley turned sharply to see if there was something behind him that Harry was staring at. He turned back around when his cousin began to speak slowly and quietly.

"Unless…that's your worst memories," he said. "My life. You've seen little bits and pieces of my life. Are those what the Dementors made you hear? My nightmares and all that?"

"No," Dudley retorted, forcing a sneer onto his face. "Don't be stupid."

Harry shrugged. "Fine," he said mildly; he jammed his hands in his pockets and began to make his way back towards the Dursleys' house, pushing past Dudley on his way. "But I think it's only fair to warn you," he added, "I think I'll be doing worse things in my sleep this summer."

These words left Dudley utterly perplexed, and he could only stare, slack-jawed, at the silhouette of Harry walking slowly back to number four, Privet Drive.

Momentarily, however, with a derisive snort, Dudley continued on his own way. Harry was bluffing. And it didn't matter, anyway, since the worst trouble his nightmares caused Dudley was waking him up in the middle of the night. They weren't a problem.

Still, several hours later, as Dudley climbed into bed, he listened carefully through the wall for any sounds from Harry's room. The freak had gone to bed early, and Dudley had heard nothing from him so far. At the moment, the only sound was his slow, deep breathing. Not allowing himself to admit that he was relieved, Dudley slid between the sheets.

"Kill you…"

He froze, heart stopping as though it, too, wanted to listen. Harry had definitely just spoken two quiet words on the other side of the wall.

No, he couldn't have.

"You…killed…"

Dudley pulled his blankets closer around him, listening intently. He must have been imagining things.

"I'll kill you…"

He wasn't imagining that.

"Killed him…I'll kill you…"

Harry knew he was listening, Dudley suddenly realized. He was whispering threats to frighten his cousin. That was all.

"No…Sirius…"

That didn't make sense.

"Sirius!"

Harry was speaking loudly and clearly now.

"Sirius! I'll kill her! I'll kill…kill…"

Dudley jerked as he heard the sounds of Harry thrashing in bed, slamming into the wall he shared with his cousin.

Then he shouted—

"_Crucio_!"

Dudley stared at the wall in wide-eyed horror, heart pounding in his skull. That, he knew, was a spell. That was all it could be. But what kind of spell…?

"She killed him! _Crucio_!"

This was too much. Whatever was happening, Dudley wanted to know what it was. Trying to be as silent as possible, though finding it difficult, Dudley eased himself out of bed, tiptoed across his room, and carefully opened the door.

Even from the hall, he could hear the thumpings and cries of Harry suffering nightmares, though they were less distinct than they had been when he had been listening from his bed. Dudley noticed that his hands trembled slightly as he fumbled with the locks which his father had installed on the outside of Harry's bedroom door, and he chewed the inside of his cheek nervously, hoping that his cousin wouldn't hear the quiet chink of metal. Trying to silence his audible breathing, he pressed his lips closed as he slid the last deadbolt out of place and slowly opened the door.

Harry was in bed, tangled in his sheets and blankets, an indistinct shape writhing, moaning, crying out in agony.

"No! He's not… He's just… He's… I'll kill her! I'll _kill_ her!"

Dudley clicked the door shut behind him, so that his parents wouldn't hear their nephew's shouts, and slowly approached the bed.

"SIRIUS!"

One of Harry's arms flung violently out, and Dudley took a step back, eyes darting quickly towards the door. His parents would surely hear if the freak kept up his shouting. Looking back at the bed, he saw Harry's face, eyes screwed shut, teeth gritted as though in pain. Every muscle in his face, his neck, his extended arm, was as tense as if he had were seized by a paralysing electrical charge.

"_CRUCIO_!"

With a wordless scream, his back arched so that he was half lifted off the bed, his body trembling with the effort, his voice still ripping from his lungs—and then he went limp, curling into a ball, his breaths ragged and short. Dudley saw sweat gleaming on his forehead, and that he was still shaking slightly…and whimpering.

There were sounds of movement down the hall; Dudley held perfectly still until he was sure that his parents weren't coming.

"Harry?" he then whispered uneasily.

There was no response. Harry was still. Apparently the nightmare had passed. Dudley took a step backwards to leave the room.

"Sirius…"

Harry was whispering again. Dudley looked closely, and saw Harry's face twitching.

"Sirius… No…"

To Dudley's amazement, a single tear slipped free and shone as it cut a path down his cousin's face. He stared at it, unable to accept what he was seeing. It was such a tiny thing…but he had never seen Harry cry… Harry, the freak, who brushed off his cousin's brutal insults and threats with cold indifference, whose brooding anger made him a criminal in the eyes of the neighbourhood, who felt more at home with mutants like those who had greeted him at the train station… Here he was, helpless in his bed, crying.

What horrors were in Harry's life, what pain could be so much greater than the sheer aggression which Dudley himself handed out and which didn't faze Harry at all?

And suddenly Dudley didn't want to know. His imagination rippled in a faint attempt to contrive an answer to the question, but he pushed it away. Harry was right—there were worse things worse than Dementors, and whatever they were, he had seen them.


End file.
